Thursday, December 26, 2013


Something old I found where I least expected it. Quentin is really weird, and he really likes stormy weather.

Rain always makes me horny.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the boudoir atmosphere of a darkened daytime sky. Maybe it’s the sensual patter of the droplets on my skin, or the percussion on the roof and windows. Maybe there’s some deep-rooted psychological reason, but whatever it may be, whenever it rains I want to get fucked.

I don’t always like getting fucked. Usually I top. I like the power, I like the feeling of my shaft inside a hot, tight hole, and I even like the responsibility. Probably topping suits me because of my passive life, a psychologist would say. For just a little bit I'm in charge.

What I don’t like is getting so close to coming that I can taste it, only to have the guy inside me come first, go soft, and then I have to jack off to finish. That’s annoying. I can jack off by myself.

On rainy days, though, I want the cum fucked out of me.

“Hey, which floor, man?”

Both the tenor voice and the hand on my shoulder startle me. I got on the elevator because it’s glass and looks out on the city. I live on the third floor, so usually I just take the stairs, but it’s raining. I want to hear it against the elevator, to feel as though I'm trapped in a glass box in a hurricane. I want to get fucked.

The guy talking to me lives here, on one of the top floors with all the penthouses. I’ve seen him on the roofgarden before, and maybe once or twice in the gym. He has a short beard, and usually I don’t like beards, but it’s raining.

“Are you visiting someone?” he asks.

So he doesn’t recognize me. That’s okay. I’m nondescript. The doormen call me “Glasses Nerd Guy;” that’s what they said to each other in Polish when I locked myself out once. Awkwardness and glasses are my only defining attributes.


He’s probably gay—his hand is still on my shoulder and it’s hot through my shirt. He has pretty green eyes and short black hair. The loose basketball shorts cling just enough to reveal a promising bulge, not too big, but likely the perfect size to top me. He looks like a Portuguese footballer with that beard. I'll bet he has some tattoos. He’s probably pretty hairy. I don’t like beards. I don’t like soccer. I don't like tattoos. I don’t like swarthy men. The rain, however, is pounding hard in my ears.

“On what floor do you live?” I ask. “Do you have a balcony?”

I caught him off guard. He drops his hand from my shoulder and takes a step back. “The sixty-second, and yeah, I do,” he answers with a tone that says he thinks it’s none of my business.

“May I see it?”

He gives me a quizzical look. “Sure, I guess, but it’s raining.”

“That’s why I want to see it.”

He doesn’t ask any more questions. Most likely he has figured it out, that I want him to take me upstairs with him for other reasons than to see the slab of concrete outside his patio doors. I’m not his type, I’m not really anyone’s type, but I look like the kind of guy who’ll do just about anything due to low self-esteem. It’s mostly true, I guess.

I just want to get fucked.

“I’m Dave, by the way,” he says as he lets me in.

“Hi, Dave.” I ignore his flat. Without looking I know it’s nice; he probably has good taste in art and his furniture is masculine and dark. There'll be a picture, just one, of Dave with his boyfriend in someplace like Belarus or Latvia. What captures my attention is the balcony that stretches all the way across the living room wall. There’s a lounge chair, just one, and plants everywhere. The rain patters on the green leaves, moving them so that they beckon me, come here, come here.

"What's your name?" he asks as I unlock the sliding glass doors.

"Quentin." The door slides open with a sibilant shh.

"Okay, Quentin, why do you want to see my balcony?" He'd rather sit on his leather couch while I blow him.

It should be obvious, though. Can't he hear it? Water hitting pavement, plants, each drop the miniaturized slap of sticky body against body. It's fuck music.

I step beyond the protection of the awning into the onslaught of rain.

"Rainy days don't make you restless?" I call in reply. I take off my sweater vest so that the rain can plaster my button-down shirt to my skin. Turning my face to the sky, I open my mouth to feel the fresh water run down my throat. I can't see Dave's expression through the precipitation streaming down my glasses. He's standing in the doorway, though.

"Damn, Quentin," he says appreciatively, "that's some body I did not expect."

He'll fuck me because he likes my body, not just because I'm here. I'm getting excited now. Dave steps out to join me on the balcony and shuts the door behind him.

"Damn," he says again, drawing close. Dave places a hand on my chest, right over my beating heart. "Look at that muscle."

Smiling, I guide his hand over my torso so he can feel the hard ridges, my nipples firm under the cotton shirt, the flooded hills and valleys of flesh and skin. My body is my favorite secret. It's a reward for the men desperate enough to be with me. It's a gift for some men's curiosity, like Dave, like now.

I kiss his collarbone. "Beat me gently," I whisper, dragging my wet lips up to his ear. "Hold me by the throat but don't take my breath. Fuck me and forget me tomorrow."

Dave turns his head to meet my mouth. His breath is hot and his lips are smooth. Now he, too, is intoxicated by the rain's chilly caress. Button by button he works to bare my skin, to let the sky drop liquid licks on my shoulders and chest. He kisses me softly but without sweetness, and his whiskers brush my chin.

Under my fingertips Dave's hips are smooth. I pull his t-shirt over his head and bend to take his nipple in my mouth. It's aggressive of me, a dominance that the rain hasn't washed away. Neither has the rain had time to erase the taste of salt on Dave's skin. He must have gotten on the elevator at the basement after a visit to the gym. Dave's isn't as hirsute as I had thought. There's a neat diamond-shaped patch on his chest that narrows to an enticing trail down his abdomen. His back is smooth, though. A large tattoo blankets his right shoulder, some pattern that he likely picked up during his bohemian travel days. He’s covered in gooseflesh, but I can warm him up.

Dave strokes my hair when I push his athletic shorts and boxers to the ground. I love a man's hipbones. I bite one, then the other, sinking my teeth into the skin and muscle that surrounds the bone. Dave jumps at first, but he doesn’t seem to mind a little pain with his pleasure.

"Do you do this often?” he asks. He's amused, surprised at both himself for allowing me into his apartment, and at me for being such a sexual predator.

“Only when it rains,” I respond. My throat is thick, my voice husky. It’s pouring harder now, almost painfully. I push Dave back so that he sits on the lounge chair. I’m ravenous for his body. I press kisses to his shaft, to the covered glans, and to his wrinkled testicles. The rain dilutes everything but the smell of his skin now, clean and musky. His thighs are thick and corded with muscle; I’ll bet he really does play soccer frequently. I tug the hair on his pubic bone to hear him gasp.

“Go ahead, baby,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard over the pattering raindrops. “Take me in your mouth.”

I obey, but not before unbuckling my own wet khakis to touch myself. I touch Dave with trembling, excited fingers, and I touch myself. We feel completely different. His cock is average length and thick, mine is long and thin. I’m smooth, his cock is heavily veined and surrounded by a mat of black curly hair. Dave’s cockhead is bulbous and powerful, falling gracefully short of being too big. I taste the rain, I taste him when I run my tongue around the tip, just under the foreskin.

Dave sucks air through his teeth and leans back. I love feeling a cock swell up in my hand. Opening my mouth, I stick out my tongue and tap Dave's cock against it.

"Yeah, fucker," he says hotly, “slap yourself with my cock."

So Dave's a talker. I can handle that.

“Suck on the tip a little bit,” he instructs.

I do to the sound of Dave’s groan, running my tongue over the glans; so smooth, like ripe fruit in my mouth. He keeps coaching me with things like, “that’s it, yeah,” and “ungh, suck it, suck my cock.” I don’t need encouragement. I want to see it fully hard, I want to know what’s going to be pummeling me, punishing me. I can take him all the way into my throat, until my nose is pressed against his crisp hair, and shake my head like a dog worrying a bone. Instead of curving upwards Dave’s cock snakes in an outward bend, which is easier to fit into my mouth. He’s a good size for fucking without anything but natural lubrication—around six inches, and fat.

“Suck on my balls,” Dave commands. “Get at them, cocksucker.”

I have to push my glasses onto my forehead to get at his testicles properly. The left one hangs a little lower, which is kind of cute. I suck it into my mouth, running my tongue over the hairy sack. Then I switch to the other one, pulling just a little bit with my teeth, not enough to make it hurt.

Dave’s dark head falls back on the chaise, exposing his neck to the weather’s wet caress. “Shit. So good.”

“Will you fuck me here?” I ask. I almost have to yell.

Dave nods, smiling at me for the first time. His teeth are very white. “You bet your ass I will. Are you going to swallow my cum?”

“Only if you’re clean.”

He smacks my forehead with his fat cock. “You bet your tight pussy I am.”

“Then I’ll swallow, we’ll get you hard again, and then you’ll fuck me.” I want to ride him, to feel him pound my ass while the rain pounds my head and back. I want him to fuck me from below while the sky fucks me with tiny water pricks from above.

In response Dave shoves me down on his cock again, fucking my mouth, using my short hair to move my head up and down. Eyes closed, I tease his balls with my fingertips; he’s getting close, the wrinkled pouch is tightening up.

“Fuck, fuck, yeah, fuck,” he chants in time to my mouth. I’m sucking like a vacuum, slurping up precum and rain. “Fuck, shit, suck it.”

He needs to come. I want him to come, I want to feel that hot slippery ejaculate coating my tongue. I whipped my tongue over the veins and the head, inhaling hard. Come for me, you bastard. I tug his balls and take his cock into my throat.

“Aw, fuck,” Dave groans, dragging the word out as his balls contract in my hand, his shaft pulses to release slick cum into my hungry, waiting mouth. It’s a little sweet, mostly bitter. Dave’s fingers pull my hair painfully, yanking at my scalp as he convulses with each ejaculation; his powerful thighs crush my shoulders repeatedly, arrhythmically.

I sit back, letting the rain wash away all traces of saliva and cum from our bodies. It hasn’t poured like this in a long time. I have to squint to see anything. Dave’s looking at me, rubbing his chest, breathing hard.

“Swallow my cum, Quentin,” he orders.

I do, knowing that he can see my Adam’s apple bob, and that it will turn him on. Dave beckons me forward, so I kick off my pants and boxers and crawl onto him. His hands immediately go to my ass, squeezing and kneading my flesh. He kisses me. His tongue is hot and slippery on mine, finding traces of his semen on the roof of my mouth and the backs of my teeth. There’s a river of fire in my body, originating in a million pricks of hard rain on my skin, Dave’s tongue, his whiskers rough on my face, his grip on my buttocks. It all becomes tributaries to the great roar in my chest, pressing against my throat, pounding in my loins.

I’m fucking Dave’s stomach, his chest, fighting the downpour running through the valley of his pecs and abs, pushing my cockhead upstream into the short curls. Maybe I do like a little hair on a man.. It tickles me a little, just enough. Dave teases my asshole, massaging me, tapping the sensitive ring of muscle so that it opens to him like a blossoming bud.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard," he tells me as he slips a finger inside.

I have to shut my eyes, overwhelmed; every nerve ending in my body is being stimulated, titillated, seduced. "I need it," I respond, clutching Dave's firm shoulders.

Thunder sounds in the distance, a timpani in our symphony of heavy breaths and sighs, and the rain patters even harder on our hot bodies. Dave's going so slowly, in and out, while he runs his other hand over my front side, sluicing water from my chest and trailing his fingertips over my tumescent shaft. I thrust my ass back at him impatiently.

"More," I order. "Make a space for yourself inside me."

Dave presses another finger against my sphincter, and then works it gently inside when I relax for him. He thrusts his fingers inside me with purpose, slowly, licking against my prostate. My ears fill with the incessant tik tik of rain against the glass doors. Water runs in rivulets down my neck, chest and back, drips from my nose to the wet pelt on Dave's muscular chest, and mixes with with the clear pre-ejaculate dribbling from my cock. His long-lashed eyes squint against the sky's onslaught, and close completely when I bend my head to suck the fresh rain from one nipple, then the other.

"Oh, that's it," he groans. I take the hard nubbin in my teeth, flicking my tongue against the puckered tip. Brushing the other with my fingertips produces another throaty moan, vibrating in his ribs. I'll drive him crazy, I'll drive us both crazy; we'll be washed away with the rain, only our lust remaining pungent in the fibers of this chaise lounge, imbedded forever along with the scent of wet foliage.

Dave withdraws his fingers. He's ready. I reach back to point his cock at my hole; it's a homing missile and I am a willing target. Dave holds my slippery hips as I back down on him. There's a delicious anticipatory pressure, and then the glans pop wetly inside of me to the tune of masculine moans. It's perfect. I sink down slowly, wanting to savor how the big head stretches me, touches the dark recesses of my secret interior. I take a moment to settle my knees on the lounge, straddling Dave's hips so I can lever my self up again.

Up. I throw my head back, drinking in the fresh cold rain. Dave's hand comes to rest on my straining cock, his rough fingers firm as he encircles the shaft. Up until only the plum glans remains inside me.

Down. Dave pulls, sending liquid fire through my body, weakening me. Thunder claps in the distance, closer than the first time. I'm full again, completed by Dave's manhood.

Up. Dave's grasping fingers travel down so that I'm fucking his hand. He pinches my left nipple with his free hand, drawing my down to bite at my lips, to snake his hot tongue into my mouth.

Up. My ass is singing with the rain. I breathe into Dave, he breathes into me.

Suddenly Dave interrupts with a thrust. Poised as I am, the head of his cock hits my prostate squarely, jogging my breath.

"Oh!" I gasp, shuddering.

Dave grips my hips squarely to thrust again, harder. I grip his wet shoulder, locking my elbow in a desperate attempt to stay upright.

"You like that?" he growls, building a steady rhythm.

I nod frantically. "Yes, yes, I like your cock," I reply, gripping my own in a tight fist. Yes, fuck me like that. Punish me from within, whip me to ecstasy.

Dave increases to battle speed. "You like it inside you? You like it fucking you?" His hips fling me skyward. Liquid drops fly from my hair as I rise like a bird, then fall as a stone onto the sharp pain-pleasure of his shaft. I'm nothing against the battering ram of his cock, a flimsy ship in a sea of shared hedonist delights.

"Fuck yes. Fuck me harder." I swallow, tasting sweat, tasting rain. "Fuck me."

Dave hammers into me. "Like that?" he demands, squeezing my buttocks brutally. "You want me to fuck you like that?" Our bodies are so hot, unaffected by the cold downpour of rain. My vision blurs with lust. My chest is full of it. I'm going to burst. I'm going to crack, to shiver into little pieces and scatter across the balcony to be blown away in the wind. The dick inside me is a rampaging warrior, subduing every cell of my body, flogging me to race after orgasm with clutching fingers.

"That's it. Fuck my hole" I hump feverishly back against him, aching to come. My sack slaps against Dave's furry abdomen; the thwack is swallowed by the sound of raindrops on my burning skin.

"Work that hungry ass," he commands huskily. He slaps me, and the rain intensifies the sting. "Get that cum."

I want it. I grip Dave's shoulder tightly; my fist flies back and forth over my cock, I tighten my muscles, tensing in preparation for the ultimate release. "Fuck!" I cry desperately. "Oh, fuck, I'm coming!"

"Come on, baby," Dave encourages me roughly. His fingers are bruising, his cock is a mighty jackhammer inside me, forcing the spunk from my balls, up my shaft, flying from the slit of my cockhead. The first rope hits Dave in the chin, and I gasp and then hold my breath—another bolt of electric pleasure as another shot, and another, and then Dave's coming too, filling me up, both of us convulsing in the throes of nigh unbearable rhapsody.

And then I collapse, shuddering, limp and weak on Dave's chest. For a brief moment we are lovers, bathed in the purifying deluge, my hand on Dave's fast-beating heart and his arms wrapped around me. Our chests heave in unison, exhausted by the force of our passion. It can't last, though. As our skin cools so must our heads. I push myself up and wipe at the traces of my cum in Dave's dark whiskers. I do like his beard after all.

“Oh, shit, that was good,” he says, lifting my ass so that he slips out of me.

“Forget me,” I tell him. “You’ll like me more if you know me less.” Make me more handsome in your memory and only fuck me in your dreams.

Dave watches me collect my soaked clothes from the ground. “Er, all right, then. Well, Quentin, until it rains again.”

I go down the elevator in a puddle of my own making. My sweater vest will probably shrink, but it was worth it. Maybe, Dave. When it rains again.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

The Worst Days 3.2

I got distracted by my job, a dog, and a little Watching Him Back spinoff. To read part 3.1 click here, or start from the beginning. Again, thanks to Luz for sending me a copy of this lost tome.
I woke the next morning to hear Mrs. Cupps pounding on my door. "Wake up, Tamlin, honey," she called. "The seamstress will be here in half an hour!"

"Ugh," I moaned to no one. The fancy duds were on their way. I did want breakfast, however, so I levered myself out of bed and trudged downstairs for some eggs and breakfast porridge. I was even sorer today now that the bruises had their chance to settle in, and on one wrist it looked as if someone had bitten me. Maybe someone had, and I had been too high on adrenaline to notice. I hoped I didn't have rabies.